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Book One: A Poor Man

at the Gate Series

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Chapter Five

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They took places in the stage coach leaving from the Post Office at dawn, the ancient faded green rattler - fifty or more years old, nearly ten feet wide and twenty long, a farm dray with a body roughly slapped on, a pair of bench seats and a big wicker basket at the rear for bags and parcels, and traditionally the poorest of passengers, the basket scramblers - expecting with ordinary good fortune, the agent said, to reach Carlisle before nightfall; if it was delayed then they would have to put up at any wayside inn that had beds.

“Ninety miles, Tom, and ten hours of daylight – not a hope in hell!”

Joseph was unimpressed by the coachman’s promises – they might make the run in one day at the height of summer when there was fifteen hours of light, but approaching the autumn equinox there was no chance. He knew little of coaches but had hired enough wagons to estimate what sort of speed they could make and the voyage down the Firth and into port had given him an idea of the countryside and its hills.

The coachman chirruped to his six horses and they set off at a sedate walk through the unlit, shadowy streets, stopping less than a mile away at a small beer house to pick up five more passengers, all of them going up onto the roof although there would have been room for four of them comfortably inside.

Bennet sniffed and said she had thought so.

“Thought what, Bennet?”

“Shouldering, Mister Andrews, sir. Thruppence a mile, you paid the company for us, sir – two bob in the driver’s pocket for them, you can bet, sir.”

“What about the guard?”

“He gets a cut, that’s for sure, sir.”

The road was in better condition than most in Britain, having been rebuilt after the Jacobite rising and maintained ever since against military need, and the coach was able to trundle along at a steady eight miles an hour on the flat and up the lesser slopes; as soon as the gradient became noticeable the pace dropped to a walk, a plodding four or five miles an hour.

They stopped to change horses and seek refreshment after three hours and twenty miles, the outside passengers quietly disappearing and being replaced by half a dozen more; Tom stood next to the coach driver, in front of the malodorous wall that served the men’s needs.

“How far do you expect to get today, driver?”

“Moffat, sir, probably. Good inn there, sir, rooms for the four of ye.”

Fifty miles, a little more than halfway.

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It rained that night and they made Carlisle at dusk on the second day, the landlord of the posting inn seeming to think they had made good time and certain that they could reach Lancaster in no more than three more days, Liverpool or Manchester on the following afternoon.

Another Accommodation Coach next morning, like the first, ancient, stale-smelling and apparently, unsprung. The leather upholstery was original, cracked, sweat-stained, stuffed with old, matted horsehair and lacking any vestige of comfort – passengers were few and the company made its money on the carriage of mails and small parcels that could not be sent by sea. It seemed that most people who had to travel any distance rode or hired a post-chaise or, better still, went by sea, although not in the autumn or winter months; the great majority simply stayed at home, nine out of ten men and women never travelling more than ten miles from their birthplace in their whole lives and most of the rest mobile only because they had been caught by the press or forcibly enlisted into the army by the local Bench of Magistrates.

Southern Scotland and the Borderlands seemed to be empty – a few sheep on the uplands, rare farmsteads in the sheltered valleys, a very few fields showing stubble of rye or oats from the recent harvest, villages far apart and uniformly poor – rarely a curtain in a window or a larger house to show a doctor or even a shopkeeper’s residence. It was a wasteland, compared even with Tom’s memories of rural Dorset, itself not a rich county by any means.

The lowlands of Lancashire, when they eventually reached them, were a thriving agricultural country with a busy population and heavily cultivated fields. There were dairy cattle and herds of beef, very few goats, flocks of sheep on all the hills and a mass of small fields surrounding the many large villages and small towns.

“Spuds and turnips and greens more than wheat and barley,” Bennet commented, the only one of them bred to the English land. “Selling to the townies, they must be, Mister Andrews – markets in the local towns, close to ‘and, like, because it costs too much to travel far. Got to be money in they towns, or they wouldn’t do it.”

Advice from the landlord of their inn in Lancaster sent them to the old borough of St Helens, situated midway between Manchester and Liverpool and in the centre of the new industrial towns that were just starting to grow. Cotton, iron and glass, they were told, all being made in huge new manufacturies, often employing as many as one hundred men under a single roof, while the old coal drifts were being turned into underground mines producing thousands of tons a year. There were canals, as well, and even, so mine host had heard, new engines worked by steam, though mostly it was watermills that supplied the power, so much so that some people were calling the new places ‘mills’.

“Should be openings for merchants there, Joe,” Tom said as they sat themselves into the post chaise they had decided to hire from Lancaster – so much more wealthy seeming than a mere stagecoach, it would make a far better impression of financial probity, and at four shillings a mile it damned well ought to, Tom reflected.

“Why stick to merchanting, Tom?” Joseph replied, the short name still sticking in his mouth but forcing himself to the sign of equality that was necessary in the new country and in his new identity.

“Because I don’t know anything else, Joe?”

“Then we can learn, can’t we. It’s all new, Tom, none of them can know a lot more than us, because they must be making it up as they go along.”

It was a good argument, Tom had to admit.

“What do we do first, Joe? We need to make the decision now.”

They had talked about little else over the days of travel, had still no firm plans.

“If you please, sir,” Amelia made a very rare contribution, having been well brought up and understanding that young misses should not intrude upon their elders and particularly should not involve themselves in men’s business. “If we had a house of our own, then we would seem to be settled and respectable. And you would have to talk to lawyers, and Papa always said that they know everything that is going on in any town.”

It made sense, it would all add to the appearance of worth that would be so important to them while they were starting out and making contacts and building their new business, whatever it might be.

The landlord of the posting house was happy to oblige them with advice and information – his business was growing every month, it seemed to him, all on the back of the new firms starting up. He kept another chaise now and had recently bought another dozen of horses and had the builders in to extend the yard and the premises – eight more big bedrooms, and a bathroom with a cold water tap and a drain, only the hot water needing to be bucketed up in so modern a convenience. He was considering one of the new water closets as well, but was still not wholly persuaded of so daring an innovation, nor was he sure that his customers would know how to use one.

“Three rooms, sir, one each for Mr Andrews and Mr Star, a double for Miss Jackson and her maid – your ward, you say, Mr Andrews?” This was a respectable house – there would be no goings-on here.

“In effect, Mr Smithers, though not in law – her father, the major, died in New York earlier this year and begged me almost in his last words to escort her back to England, her mother long deceased. The major had been unlucky in an investment, I understand, and had little in the way of funds to leave her and it had been my intent to take her to an uncle who lives in a small way in the south country, but it seems to me that there is an understanding growing between her and Mr Star and I rather suspect she would far rather be wed and independent than a burden and a drudge in an unknown relative’s house. She is a pleasant young lady, and he is a man of respectable birth, and it seems to me to be a good thing for them both.”

The landlord agreed – there was little future for an undowered young miss dumped out of the blue on her relatives, much better a respectable marriage. Tom consoled himself that he had been telling the strictest truth – Joseph had told him that his Carib grandfather had been a chief in his tribe, thus qualifying him as an aristocrat of sorts, at least the equal of an English baronet in his own land.

“A house, Mr Andrews? Buying over on the west side of town, upwind of the smells and smokes, of course. All the fires are coal now, you can’t get firewood for love or money and the air gets thick in winter, sir, and there are even steam engines at some of the pits now, smoking all year round. They drive the pumps, I am told, necessary now that some of the mines are cutting coal a good one hundred feet underground! The iron foundries are mostly at the eastern end of the town, and the glassworks is out on the sands, of course. The cotton spinners are spread all through, in the sheds at the back of their cottages, though one or two larger places are on the streams up the valley over towards the Wigan side. Weavers are all small men, working out of their own houses all over the place. Everybody who is anybody lives upwind of the smell, better yet out of town if they possibly can. For a house, the attorneys of the town can act to point you to the sellers, and, of course, they must draw up any contract in real estate – purchase of land must be recorded in written contract, is not lawful otherwise. I could give your name to my own lawyer, sir, recommending you, as it were?”

“That would be very convenient to me, Mr Smithers, please do so.”

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Smithers’ attorney was ancient, grey, desiccated and highly respectable; he sat behind his desk and listened gravely to Tom as he announced his desire to buy a house of appropriate size, to be his base whilst he found his way into the local business community.

“I, myself, Mr Andrews know nothing of, ah, ‘business’, hardly the preserve of the genteel, I understand. Of real estate, however, I believe I have some slight acquaintance, and can represent you to your advantage. There are a number of properties to be sold in the better part of town and the immediate locality and my junior clerk will be pleased to escort you to the viewing of several. I understand that young Mr Clapperley, the son of my late partner, himself an attorney with his own practice, numbers some of the, ah, ‘business community’ amongst his clientele, and may be aware of opportunities for investment, for cash, money being short at the moment.”

Tom noted that young Mr Clapperley had not succeeded his father in the partnership, which was unusual, he believed; even in New York the attorneys he had dealt with had been members of old family firms. It was possible, likely indeed, that there was a lack of respectability to the young man – which could make him a very useful gentleman to know, bent lawyers were always a potential source of profit.

“I have, Mr Satterthwaite, a number of counter-signed Bills of Exchange which I would wish to discount. Perhaps a local bank could assist? Or must I take them to London? They are twelve month Bills drawn on London Houses with between two and three months on them. I would wish as well to make a deposit of some reasonable amount in Bank of England notes, retaining the coin for my own outgoings, and the purchase of my house – I presume there is a premium on gold in England?”

Gold was more highly valued than paper, in England as it had been in New York; Satterthwaite was able to assure Tom that five or six hundred gold guineas would purchase him the largest property on the local market, the coins valued at not less than ten parts in the hundred more than their face. The American War had driven gold out of circulation, the thrifty hoarding the metal and passing on the paper money that might, conceivably, become worthless in the event of the collapse of government and trade consequent on humiliating defeat and invasion.

“Not, Mr Andrews, that there is great likelihood of any successful invasion, but the Jacobite army from Scotland passed through here less than forty years ago, looting and destroying – many of the older residents have memories of the event, and believe that what has occurred once, may again. The fear is there, and fear commonly defeats rationality, I believe. I bank with Mr Martin of the St Helens and Wigan, Mr Andrews, and am confident in his probity; he is perhaps the smallest of the local banks, but he is not the least sound, in the main because he is content to lend very carefully, with great prudence, taking only those customers who come recommended. I would be very happy to introduce you to him, sir.”

Tom wondered why – he was unknown to Satterthwaite and had no local connections; he had merely said that he had been resident in America and had judged it wiser to come away, sole survivor of his family and bearing the last of its fortune with him.

Satterthwaite had had three sons, two of them midshipmen, both lost to storms when their small ships had foundered off the New England coast, the third commissioned into the militia and then exchanged into the regular army by the ordinary route of bringing in his own company of volunteers – he had gone to America and had died there of a camp fever before ever seeing the battlefield. Two daughters and their children remained, but he had a regard for any young man who had survived that appalling country and had had sense enough to return to the motherland. There was no need, he felt, to mention any of this to Mr Andrews, his personal life was not a matter for public delectation, let him just assume that it was all part of his professional services; he wondered, in passing, just how Mr Andrews had come by his scarred face – perhaps it partly explained why he was the last of his family, poor young man!

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“One house or two, Joe?”

“One large, one small, next to each other, if it’s possible, Tom – newly-weds should have privacy!”

They gave their instructions to Satterthwaite’s clerk, were driven out by him in his gig three days later a couple of miles down the road towards Manchester, into open countryside, then another mile up the hills to an area of small farms and moorland on the road to Billinge. He stopped at a small country house, seven or eight bedrooms at a glance, not particularly distinguished architecturally, constructed of the local yellow stone by an unimaginative builder of half a century before, square and dour, but solid. A drive of a couple of hundred yards led down from the road and a lodge cottage. There were large ornamental gardens beside the drive inside a wall surrounding six or seven acres in all.

“Smallpox was rife last year, Mr Andrews. In the way of disease, sir, some escaped untouched, some families lost one or two, a few were wiped out. Old Mr Keighley and his son and his wife and their three children – all gone in the space of a week. Probate has just been granted to a nephew who has no wish to leave his own house for one as unfortunate to his family as this. Seven acres, at twenty pounds; the lodge cottage at eighty; the big house and stables at the back, four hundred and twenty. Six hundred and forty pounds his asking price, sir.”

Tom had made enquiries of house prices in the locality, had a fair idea of what was normal. Twenty pounds an acre for the gardens was steep, the cottage was fairly priced, the house was a hundred pounds less than might have been expected in the area. Of course, the house was unlucky, would not be well thought of amongst the local people – it might be very difficult to find a purchaser.

Tom nodded noncommittally, let the clerk unlock the front door and usher him inside. Hallway, stairs, reception rooms, kitchen and pantries, a pair of cellars; eight bedrooms, two of them of a good size and with dressing-rooms, on the first floor; attics with rooms for six staff reached by a back stair. A block of six boxes and a small carriage house at the rear, groom’s quarters above. Tom had seen houses like it near his old home in Dorset, had never expected to have one like them of his own. They walked over to the lodge, found it to be somewhat larger than it seemed from the front, with four bedrooms and three big receptions.

“It served as a Dower House, sir, a generation or so back, was extended then.”

Tom caught Joseph’s eye, questioningly, received a nod.

“Five hundred guineas, gold?”

Five hundred and twenty five pounds and the premium of gold on paper, at least ten per centum, brought the offer close to six hundreds, in cash immediately to hand – no loans, no Bills, no time to pay – it was a good offer.

“I will take your proposal to Mr Satterthwaite, sir, and he will wish to take instructions. I would expect at least a week before any answer can be forthcoming, sir.”

A man with five hundred golden guineas in his pocket was worth a ‘sir’ in every sentence, it would seem.

The offer was accepted within four days and a tentative date for exchange of contracts was arranged for the following month, the gold coins lodged for the meanwhile in Satterthwaite’s safe, token of Tom’s probity. They met young Mr Clapperley on the next morning, he evidently having been given the word that there was real money in Tom’s pocket and bank account, not just hot air.

Clapperley was a nasty little man, was Tom’s first reaction, not perhaps especially under-sized but hunched up into himself, secretive and sly, closed away, as it were. He met them, shook hands and leered ingratiatingly; Tom realised it was in fact a courteous smile of greeting, as well as he could manage such.

“Mr Andrews and Mr Star! A pleasure to meet you, gentlemen! My good friend Satterthwaite tells me that you wish to become established in business in this locality?”

No courtesy title for Satterthwaite, trying to imply that they were close associates and boon companions, which seemed somewhat unlikely.

“Yes, Mr Clapperley, that is our intention. Possibly to set up new for ourselves, perhaps to buy into an existing firm as partners, maybe even to buy out a gentleman seeking to retire.”

“Buying into an existing concern it is many ways the best course, in my opinion, gentlemen. Money is short, and I know of three firms in the iron trade, for example, who could benefit from an injection of cash, and there are several cotton factors who are hand-to-mouth at the moment.”

Tom stopped him in mid-flow, before he could get to the proposition he was evidently about to make.

“’Cotton factors’, Mr Clapperley? Not a term familiar to me.”

Clapperley smiled, changed tack – Andrews was not to be rushed, it seemed.

“The Putting-out system, Mr Andrews, the old way that has done good service for many years. Cotton must be washed and carded and spun and then woven before going to be dyed and worked into dress lengths or whatever. Weaving is done on the hand looms, by the men in their cottages, sometimes in a shed attached, at most three or four looms together where there are adult sons or sometimes younger unmarried brothers in the family. Spinning is sometimes done in factories using water-frames powered off the mill-wheel, more commonly at home on a spinning wheel – the old distaff is almost never to be seen nowadays; often the weavers’ womenfolk are the spinners. The weavers and cottage spinners in the nature of things have very little money – they could never afford to go to the auctions and buy bales of raw cotton off the ships, hence the factors. The factor buys part or all of a shipload of cotton, stores it in his warehouse and breaks bulk and then sells raw cotton to the spinners; they sell thread and yarns back to him the next week or fortnight, and he then sells on to the weavers, who sell their cloths back to him and then on to the dyers and finally to the tailors and cutters and dressmakers and haberdashers and whoever wants cloth to work.”

“So the factor is out on the roads as much as he is in the warehouse, it would seem.”

“He is, sir. When I said ‘sell’, by the way, Mr Andrews, there is not in fact a lot of cash involved – being poor folks almost all is on credit – sell twenty pounds worth of cotton, buy back twenty one pounds worth of yarns, one pound cash actually changing hands.”

Joseph was interested – he knew of cotton, they grew a little of long-staple, the highest quality, on small farms in Antigua, and was sure that he could talk sensibly to the spinners and weavers, make himself a trusted business partner in a trade that must depend on mutual respect. He questioned Clapperley a little further, particularly about the financial aspects.

“Cotton is still essentially the province of the little man, Mr Star, though that is changing. Two thousands would purchase a half share, a full partnership, in any of half a dozen concerns I know of. Ponies and traps or vans, a dray, even, a bulk purchase at auction, possibly the buying of handlooms to set up half a dozen men on wages. I could make some contacts for you, perhaps?”

“Possibly, Mr Clapperley, it is one of several lines of enquiry at the moment.”

Tom nodded, took over the discussion.

“What of the iron trade, Mr Clapperley? I have heard tell of iron works and foundries.”

“There are a number in this area – every coalfield has some, though there are more to the south in Birmingham and in Yorkshire around Sheffield. Coke firing for cast iron and steel making has enabled much more to be made, though coke is still not so effective for the production of good wrought iron, I understand, but even there we hear a whisper that a gentleman named Cort is close to perfecting a new technique. Even though output is rising, gentlemen, the demand for iron is climbing faster still.”

“Then the trade should be profitable, sir, should not need too much of cash from new investors, one might think.”

“Normally, yes, Mr Andrews, but where a proprietor has, for one reason or another, failed to keep on top of the job, then problems arise that may lead to a need for more cash and a better organisation.”

Tom raised an eyebrow, attempted a complicitous smile which his scarring turned into a menacing grimace; he noticed Clapperley’s cringe, put it down to his general peculiarity – a very strange little man!

“I should imagine that you will be able to put me in contact with some local proprietor in cotton or iron, or coal perhaps, who needs to sell all or part of his concern, Mr Clapperley?”

Clapperley was sure that he would be able to, at a very reasonable price, he expected.

“Then Mr Star and I need to discuss our plans fully and come to you with our final instructions, sir. Shall we say tomorrow morning, at ten would be convenient?”

The rest of the day was committed to Bennet and Amelia, promises having been made to take the two out to the new houses they would be responsible for so that they could make plans for their housekeeping. In reality Bennet would take charge of each at first, Amelia watching and, hopefully, learning; the first need would be staff and for that Amelia had no idea at all. It seemed to them all that it would be sensible for the wedding to take place as early as was possible, so that they could move in immediately after contracts were signed. Bennet had a feeling that there had to be Banns of Marriage, she was sure such were needed these days, but she had no certain idea of what they were. They sought out the parish church and the rector who explained the formalities demanded by English law and was a little surprised at their ignorance of them; long residence in America sufficed as explanation, reference to Satterthwaite established their bona fides.

“The marriage of a minor, of course, demands the consent of parent or guardian, Mr Andrews.”

“I am guardian, appointed by her father at his death, sir.”

A guardian had to be of age, and the rector was not entirely sure that Tom was twenty-one; he was, however, more than six feet tall, built like a bruiser and heavily scarred on his face and the reverend was a man of peace. The Banns would be called. Fees were paid, time and date confirmed and they would be married within two days of the houses becoming theirs; it was very convenient.

It occurred to Joseph, belatedly, that he had never actually proposed to Amelia, but she brushed that aside as the merest triviality, they both knew that they wanted to be wed, she said.

Observing, and saying nothing, Tom suspected very strongly that young Miss Amelia wanted a husband and a house and a settled life at least as much as she wanted Joseph; considering her father and his erratic circumstances he could hardly blame her. Thinking on the matter, he would not mind settling down himself, one day – but there was too much to do yet.

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“You want to go for the cotton factoring, Joseph?”

“For a start, Tom. I think I want to look at the chance of a spinning mill, though – like the little weasel talked about. I don’t see moving the cotton from one place to another and paying for its transport and letting it get dusty or muddy on these roads. There’s no sense to it. Best would be just one big place with machines – but weaving’s all hand, he says, so we have to keep with what the weavers will do. One day.”

“Two thousand, Clapperley said, that would leave a fair bit in hand to build your mill. What I reckon is that we are partners, you to have a quarter.”

“Partners? Working together, not employed by you?”

“Why not? Andrews and Star – we can get Satterthwaite to register us, or whatever he needs to do. The houses separate, our own property.”

“Why? Why give me this?”

“You did a lot of the work in New York, more than me if truth be told. You fought beside me and you watched my back and I’d probably be dead if you hadn’t. I’m boss, because I pinched the money, but with you backing me still I reckon I’ll do better than I possibly could on my own. So it’s only fair that you make money too. Anyway, we’re friends, not master and man.”

“Thank you, Tom.” Joseph stretched out his hand, the greeting of an equal, believing it for the first time.

“What are you going to do, Tom? Iron?”

“And coal and steam engines as soon as I’ve got the first place up and running. I’ve been talking with Smithers of an afternoon, sharing a quiet glass in his slow time while you’ve been out in town with Miss Amelia; running a big inn like this he gets to meet people and hear everything that’s going on. He says that iron’s the way it’s going to be for the next century – iron bridges, iron ships even, big iron pillars to hold up the roofs of these mills, iron drain pipes and gutters and sewers. On the small side there’s kettles and pots and pans; door knobs and knockers; knives and swords and guns; axles and wheels; nails and screws and needles and pins! There’s no end to what you can make out of iron, Joe, and that means coke to smelt it and coal mines and the engines to drain them and turn their big wheels to lift the coal up and down.”

Joseph grinned at the younger man’s enthusiasm – it all sounded too smoky and fiery and dirty for him, he would keep to the cleaner world of cotton.

“Another thing, Joe, Smithers passed on a bit about Clapperley; he don’t like him at all, says he might be useful but we need to watch the little bugger, a really nasty piece of work. There are rumours about him and a young girl, the daughter of his landlady when he was in rooms, only just grown up and not very wil